


Seven Hundred and Counting

by holmesian_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Idiots in Love, M/M, Unable to communicate, angst ridden love bugs, flatmate frustrations, frustrated bunnies, suicide discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:07:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29578641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesian_love/pseuds/holmesian_love
Summary: After a frantic end to a case, Sherlock is suddenly struck down and tests show he is in dire need of help. Once again he's been keeping information from his overprotective flatmate and it dredges up past feelings. Can Sherlock and John overcome their stubbornness?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 73





	Seven Hundred and Counting

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Reich, Mary doesn't exist (the way so many of you like it!)
> 
> This is a little one shot to celebrate reaching 700 followers on Twitter (hence the reference to the number) and is gifted to the winner - Claudia
> 
> Thanks as always, to Janet for her editing skills and advice, and J_Baillier for her medical expertise to help me find something that fit my quirky criteria.

“Well that was ridiculous,” John said loudly, in frustration, as he removed his scarf and slammed it down on the table aggressively.

Sherlock chuckled quietly to himself, the sound never leaving his mouth, just nestling in his chest. John knew that the more infuriated he felt, the more amusing it was to Sherlock, who seemed to always take great pleasure in his misery. The snigger was cut short, though, as it became a wheeze resulting in a coughing fit, stopping Sherlock in his tracks, mid-way to the kitchen.

John paused, removing his coat to look over at Sherlock with concern. “You okay?” he checked.

Sherlock let the cough die down, eyes closed in what seemed to be pain, nodding to John in reassurance but saying nothing. He removed his own coat and scarf quietly, threw them over John’s chair, and headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“Sherlock—” John tried. When it came to health matters, he was never satisfied until Sherlock gave him a full and clear answer.

“Tea?” Sherlock deflected brightly, clearing his throat before making a deliberately loud racket with the cups in the cupboard and the teaspoons in the drawer, to end the conversation, drowning out John’s voice.

Before John could continue to press him, his phone rang loudly, grabbing their attention.

“It’s Greg,” he called over to Sherlock, rolling his eyes and bringing the phone to his ear. “Yes,” he answered. “Yes, I know. I _know_. Sorry. Yes… absolutely. Understood—” he looked over at Sherlock with a serious expression, before rolling his eyes again.

Sherlock smiled to himself, looking down at the mugs waiting on the bench for the kettle to finish boiling. He would have already guessed what Greg was saying… yelling.

“Yes Greg, okay. I’ve got it. Yes, I’ll tell him. Give us an hour…? Yes. I promise.”

John hung up the phone and walked towards the kitchen, just as Sherlock was ready to pass him a steaming cup of tea.

“We need to go in?” Sherlock checked.

“Yes, he wasn’t happy that we ran from the scene,” John confirmed, grabbing his tea and blowing over the top of it, his hands cupping the warm mug, seeking the heat after the cold air outside.

“It blew up, John,” Sherlock said, as if John hadn’t been there with him. As if they hadn’t just run through the streets after the near miss. Sherlock, as usual, had thought it was hilarious. How clever he had been to work it out in time for them to get out. John had started the run giggling along with Sherlock, then had been worried as Sherlock ran into a brick wall, momentarily losing his breath, and by the time they were at Baker Street, John was legitimately angry. Greg had not warned them what they were walking into. Even Sherlock hadn’t realised until it was nearly too late, until they had nearly been caught up in a bloody explosion.

“I’m aware of that, Sherlock,” John reminded him, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “Better to be out of an exploding café, than _in_ it. No argument from me there. But he needs us to come down to go through the details.”

“He can wait,” Sherlock responded, walking past John to reach his chair and sit comfortably in it to drink his tea. John noted the pained look on his face as he sat.

“Sherlock—”

“Drink your tea, John.” Sherlock’s pronouncement was an unspoken signal that the conversation was done with, and he wanted to drink in silence.

“What did Lestrade ask you to tell me?” he mumbled, with eyes closed, already thinking perhaps.

“Hmmm? Oh, nothing important,” John said vaguely, moving to his corresponding chair. “Do you have any idea who did this, Sherlock?”

“Of course,” Sherlock confirmed.

“Of course.” John repeated, irritated. As usual, Sherlock was ten steps ahead and not including him in the information. “Sherlock—”

“ _Drink your tea_ ,” Sherlock said, slightly more forcefully, before sipping his own again and closing his eyes. He was either in his mind palace, or simply not interested in talking. John never quite knew which, but it was clear he was being cut off.

**********

An hour went by as they settled into their comfortable routine: John on his laptop at the table, already typing up his case notes, and Sherlock wandering the flat, alternating between violin playing, some reading on the couch and an experiment on the kitchen table. John noticed Sherlock had stopped mid-task in the kitchen, stretching awkwardly, one arm in the air, head tilted to the side seeking a comfortable position.

“You okay?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he watched Sherlock’s strange routine.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said with the appropriate amount of annoyance at being fretted over, not even bothering to glance over.

“Because if you hurt yourself today…?” John began, looking down awkwardly at his computer, suddenly torn between concern and awkwardness. “You know, when we rounded that corner, and you ran into the wall? I thought—”

“John, honestly if you’re going to fuss every time I run into something, you’ll never get any rest. I’m a grown man and thus perfectly capable of staying on top of—”

Sherlock was gone from the kitchen. He had walked off mid-sentence to his room, continuing to talk – as he did sometimes – assuming John had long-range hearing skills he didn’t actually possess.

“Sherlock?” John sat up in the chair, pausing. But even John could tell Sherlock had actually stopped talking altogether now. “Sherlock?” he asked again, standing up from his chair, staring down the corridor.

No response. John walked tentatively towards the bedroom, his senses more alert, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to stand to attention in preparation for something bad.

“Are you in there?” he checked.

Still no response. In fact, it was eerily quiet and the very fact that Sherlock had not loudly countered his nagging, or at least let out a frustrated noise, was concerning. John pushed the door to the bedroom open, to find Sherlock bent over, one hand braced on the mattress, the other holding his side.

“Sherlock!” he called out as he ran forward.

“I’m… fine… John,” he managed to get out, between harsh breaths, in a very strained voice.

“You’re clearly _not_ fine. Look at you! What’s going on?” John demanded.

“Nothing… I don’t know… I just… felt… faint for a moment,” Sherlock forced out.

“Ok; sit down,” John said in a soothing voice, as calmly as he could. He put his hands on either side of Sherlock and turned him, slowly, gently sitting him on the edge of the bed. The fact that Sherlock obliged without argument made John only worry more. It was completely out of character for him to admit defeat. He must be in a lot of pain. “I need to check you out. Tell me what’s really going on.” John grabbed a pen torch out of his pants pocket – much to Sherlock’s surprise – and shone it in Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock flinched away, his nose scrunching with the unexpected onslaught of light and attention. “ _John._ Stop _fussing_ ,” he ordered, superficially swatting at the air, although he had already settled back in place for John to carry on.

This was far from the first time John had needed to check Sherlock over. There had been many post-case assessments but usually for more obvious and superficial cuts and bruises. John had managed to sew a couple of stitches on one occasion – something he wasn’t in a hurry to repeat. Sherlock was a far from exemplary patient. John tried to use his best bed-side manner – his soothing doctor voice, his gentle patience. All the things he wouldn’t normally be when Sherlock was being irritatingly stubborn.

“Just… sit still,” John scolded, as gently as he could manage. “Sherlock, this is not _normal_ — especially not for you,” he added, pausing to step back and look Sherlock over, concern gripping his features and making them more pinched. Sherlock’s breathing was faster and shallower, and his colour was not good. He looked paler than usual and a light sheen of sweat sprinkled his forehead, making his curls stick together, just from the physical effort of being upright. John took in the sight before him, madly working through a mental list of what could be causing this. “Have you… taken anything?” he finally broached tentatively.

“John!” The look Sherlock levelled at him communicating clearly his offence at the question.

“Well… _have_ you?” John asked again, not swayed by Sherlock’s overreaction.

“I’m insulted.” Sherlock tried to lift his head in mock offense but moving just made everything hurt more and he had to settle on a slightly pouty bottom lip instead, the pain making him cramp up and tense everything.

John noticed. Sherlock always teased him for being unobservant, but when it came to bodies and medical details, John was far cleverer than Sherlock ever gave him credit for.

“Sherlock!” he pushed. He was the one person to never be convinced by Sherlock’s theatrics and he’d seen plenty of them in their time together. Sherlock’s health was not something he ever joked about. _Ever_.

“No,” Sherlock sulked in reply. “All right? Happy? I haven’t taken anything,” he responded, unable to look John in the eye. “God, you’re more annoying than Mycroft right now. And you _know_ that’s saying something.”

John’s left eyebrow rose on its own in reaction to the insult. Sherlock must be feeling pretty awful right now to be throwing out bombs like that.

“Okay Sherlock,” he let out on a heavy breath of relief, pausing to steady himself and be calm again. He pressed the bridge of his nose with his left hand to focus before he went on. At least they were getting somewhere. _No drugs_. “So… you were coughing before,” John carried on investigating. “What are you hiding? What’s going on?”

Sherlock let out his own heavy sigh, in echo. He knew when to stop fighting John – although the fight along the way was often fun for them both. Now John was thankful that Sherlock was surrendering.

“I felt a bit strange during the week. Nothing serious really,” he rushed to justify before John could start arguing. “Just thought I was tired, really. We haven’t had a case for a while like this. But the running… today… colliding with the wall earlier… it seems to have triggered… something.”

“Hmmm,” John hummed, before his face lit up again with an idea. “Did you hit your head?”

“No. No I didn’t hit my head, I just kind of…” Sherlock moved a bit to remember what exactly was bothering him. “…my ribs are a bit sore.”

“You could have cracked one or something. Sherlock, we need to go and get you checked out,” John urged.

“John, I really don’t think that’s necessary,” he pleaded. "There's nothing your lot can do for broken ribs, anyway. Except to just wait for them to heal."

“Well, _I’m_ the doctor here. I’m _your_ doctor, in fact. So, I get to decide. And we’re going to the hospital.”

“I don’t want to,” Sherlock tried to cross his arms and sulk, but it hurt too much, and he just had to drop them by his side again awkwardly, blushing slightly at his unsuccessful petulance.

“Well, would you at least let Molly run whatever tests she could?” John settled on.

Getting Sherlock to admit to needing help and leaving the flat would be the first step.

“Fine,” Sherlock finally conceded, watching John closely. It was a sign that things were far worse than John realised, that Sherlock relinquished so quickly.

“Okay then, we’ll just go to the lab,” John said with a nod, trying to keep it as casual as possible, despite his worry. “I’ll ring ahead. They won't be able to do a full workup since you're not a patient, but I'm sure Molly can help us rule some stuff out.”

**********

“It’s seven hundred,” Molly said, sounding surprised and looking from the paper to Sherlock and across at John.

Sherlock was perched on a tall stool, using the bench to support his weight and looking frailer by the minute. John sat beside him on another stool, sifting through a medical book from Molly’s shelves, while simultaneously googling on her laptop, and asking Sherlock an incessant string of questions about his symptoms. Sherlock was answering in annoyed monosyllables, without the energy to argue, and John’s eyes were flicking between the research and scanning Sherlock constantly for any change.

“What is?” he looked up, pausing from his reading, shock painted over his face.

“His creatinine level is _seven hundred_ ,” she restated, with something similar to awe in her voice. John got off his stool, putting the book on the bench, and walking over to snatch the page out of her hand roughly.

“Can’t be,” he said, his eyes scanning the page frantically.

“Well, it _is_ ,” she argued, looking back over to Sherlock again, who was watching their reactions unfold, completely clueless.

“That’s _ridiculous_!” John exclaimed, flipping the page over, hoping for more detail, re-reading the information.

“What is?” Sherlock asked from his perch.

“You’re in kidney failure,” John said as he looked to Sherlock, before returning to read it for a third time, as if the result might have updated in the meantime.

“What? That’s ridiculous!” Sherlock responded.

John could tell he was wanting to walk over and look too, but he clearly had no energy to move. “Have you been… eating this week?” John asked, feeling guilty that he didn’t really know the answer himself.

“We’ve been on a case, John. You _know_ I don’t eat when I’m on a case,” Sherlock said simply.

“Drinking?” he tried.

Sherlock scoffed. “Tea?” he checked if that was acceptable.

“Have you been…” John cleared his throat awkwardly. “How often have you been urinating?” he asked, a slight blush on his cheeks. He didn’t know why suddenly his medical expertise went out the window, where Sherlock was concerned, when things got personal.

“Well, I wasn’t counting… not this week at least… but now that you mention it, not that often.”

“Jesus, Sherlock!” he let out on a gush of air.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Honestly, you’re like a child sometimes! Could you… I don’t know… just look after yourself, please?” John said, putting his head into his hand in frustration. Part of it caused by disbelief and part of it from the humiliation of Molly seeing what a bad friend and flatmate he was to not have realised until this point. For his creatinine level to be this high, Sherlock had to have been deteriorating for a while now. Although, to be fair, Molly was well aware of their dysfunctional flatmateship and Sherlock’s stubbornness. It still made him cringe to himself.

“How long have you really felt like this?” he asked, not looking up.

“I don’t know… maybe since last week?” he offered, taking a moment to mentally scroll through his mind palace to check the answer.

“Last week?!” John exploded, unable to control his reaction. "And you're sure you haven't used anything you shouldn't have? What about experiments? What _have_ you put in your body, if not food and water?"

“I don’t know… nothing out of the ordinary?” Sherlock said, uncertain. “We were in that house… with the… the greenhouse? For that last case,” he added, hoping that would help. "I didn't ingest anything out of the ordinary in there."

John knew when Sherlock didn’t eat regularly, he sometimes lost all sense of time and what felt like a day for him had, in fact, been four, or could have been longer.

“That was _two_ weeks ago! Sherlock!” he yelled, before he could calm himself again.

“There could have been something in the greenhouse… that you’ve been exposed to… toxins of some kind? Some plants give off toxins—” Molly added tentatively, trying to be helpful.

“I'm perfectly aware of the existence of plant toxins, thank you Molly," Sherlock snapped. "Besides, _you_ feel fine and you were in there, too,” Sherlock pointed at John.

“Yeah, I do,” John agreed.

“It’s probably just a virus or something. And I’ve probably just bruised my ribs on the wall. It’s nothing, John. You needn’t worry,” Sherlock reassured him, flippantly.

“Your creatinine is at seven hundred!” John shouted.

“How bad is that?” Sherlock asked.

“Very bad. Very, very bad!” John yelled, unable to hold it in.

“One hundred and seven micromoles would be considered the high end of normal. You’re way over. I’m amazed you’re upright, honestly,” Molly added, since John was unable to stay calm.

“Oh.” Sherlock had no clever retort for that.

_"Damned straight, oh_.” John said triumphantly, knowing Sherlock finally got it. He was grateful for Molly being there because he was becoming senseless with worry, his mind working overtime. The shock was still finding its way through his blood stream. How was Sherlock able to seem so normal when the results were so severe?

"Give me your symptoms, then," John demanded. "Besides the ones you're having right now. Diminished urine output, what else?"

Sherlock flapped his wrist dismissively. "I don't know. Slightly more tired than usual? Exercise tolerance somewhat diminished. Achy joints. Some nausea. Must be some virus. They can affect kidneys, can't they?"

"They can, yes, but—" Molly started, but got cut off by John.

"Dehydration and malnutrition alone shouldn't push it this far. If it could, then it should have happened before. You've done this for years, haven't you, stopped eating and drinking when you're working? I hate to ask you again, but have you—"

Sherlock's eyes were blazing with anger. " _No, John,_ I have not ingested any medical or illegal substances in the past two weeks besides the ibuprofen you keep in the bathroom cabinet."

John's eyes blew wide, locking sight with Molly. "Fuck. Well, that explains it."

Molly's lips tightened in agreement.

Sherlock glared at them both. "What?"

"Let me guess," John said, "you took some of it that night when we practically ran a marathon all over town tracking down the potential murder site when your sensibilities wouldn't allow you to sit in the same car as Donovan. I've still got blisters on my bloody feet."

"I may have, yes. Three tablets."

Sherlock rarely accepted a painkiller even when sick, so he must have been feeling rather sore already to ingest an ibuprofen.

" _Three_? For the love of––" John rolled his eyes.

"Stop making a scene and _explain!_ " Sherlock snapped.

"Non-steroidal anti-inflammatory painkillers can really harm kidneys if there are predisposing factors. Dehydration and kidneys potentially affected by some toxin plus ibuprofen… now, the seven hundred creatinine level doesn't seem very surprising," Molly rationalised. "I remember a patient from my internal medicine rotation; healthy woman who'd done a triathlon and popped a few non-steroidals. Ended up in intensive care. Heavy exercise and naproxen and dehydration was all it took."

“So, what was the cough about then?” Sherlock asked, trying to win at some part of the argument.

“Well… you’re in kidney failure, it’s going to affect your other organs,” Molly replied first.

“We’re probably going to have to admit you to hospital, get you on dialysis immediately,” John cut in, wanting to impart the seriousness to him.

“ _Dialysis?!_ ”  
  
“Sherlock, you’re a _scientist_. How do you _not know_ this stuff?” John said in frustration.

“Well, I deleted it, John,” Sherlock said stubbornly. He didn’t like it when he didn’t know something. Especially when he was in front of the likes of Molly.

“Deleted it?” John knew exactly what he meant but he couldn’t stop himself asking.

“Well yes, I deleted it. I’ve got a doctor in the house. So… I just… deleted it,” he explained, as if it should be apparent.

“Oh, for god’s sake!” John let out in annoyance, before steadying himself again. Sometimes living with Sherlock felt like raising a teenager. It reminded him of when he was in charge of Harry and he could never keep her under control either. He knew a large percentage of his frustrations were really residual trauma from those days and not really Sherlock’s fault. “Thanks Molly,” he said more calmly. “I think I’ll take it from here. We’re going to go straight upstairs and get him admitted.”

“I’ll call ahead to St Mary's A&E,” she said dutifully. “Since we don't have an A&E here and Barts isn’t really going to have the equipment—” she began but let it trail off when John gave her a look. 

_Let’s not give Sherlock any opportunity to wriggle out of this_ , it said.

“… but you’re right. It’s time sensitive, getting him up where they can do more tests and get him on a drip urgently is a good start,” she finished.  
  
“Thanks,” John nodded, already putting an arm around Sherlock to guide him off the stool and out the door. His legs had started to wobble.

“Admit me? I can’t go into hospital, don’t be ridiculous, John! Can’t you just do it at home?” Sherlock tried to sound triumphant, tried to dig in his Italian leather shoes unsuccessfully on the flooring, looking to Molly for support. But the vocal effort caused him to cough again and John used the moment to push him harder towards the door, his muscles involuntarily losing strength.

“Sherlock, that’s enough,” John said sternly. “ _Now_.”

And with that, he let Sherlock know he was done arguing. He was not taking any more of Sherlock’s nonsense.

**********

John sat beside Sherlock’s bed, running through their arrival in his head on an endless repeating loop. Sherlock had refused help, from absolutely everyone – John included. Storming ahead of John, he tried to constantly use the wall to prop himself up as he progressed down the corridors, in a weak attempt to stay upright. Stubborn to a fault, he argued incessantly with John, then physically wrestled off the nurses, until he finally collapsed. As terrifying as it had been for John to watch Sherlock’s decline, it was a welcome relief, that they could finally help him, without any more struggling. Now he was sleeping, fitted with a drip and awaiting the last of the test results, before they moved him to a bed ward for kidney disease patients. Dialysis was definitely on the cards and it seemed like the damage was thankfully going to be reversible. He'd need to be on a low-protein diet and intravenous fluids until the kidney damage showed signs of either improving or getting worse.

John wasn’t one to pray very often but he had prayed over the last hour. Sherlock had not needed sedation, he had slept soundly for the entire time, exhaustion taking control.

John had not left Sherlock’s side, now that it was safe to watch over him. He knew Sherlock would never comfortably accept the attention otherwise and being unconscious was apparently the safest way. He had pulled a chair closer, resting his arms and elbows on the mattress, leaning his body forward, to rest his head on his arms, the emotional exhaustion from the day catching up with him as well.

Sherlock stirred, reaching out with his fingers along the mattress to try and get John’s attention but was unable to reach. He tried to talk, but his voice was croaky, unable to speak properly.

“J—” he began.

“Sherlock,” John said, looking up suddenly.

“John,” he finally managed, his voice raspy.

“You’re awake,” John sighed, closing his eyes in relief.

“Yes. I don’t know what—” Sherlock tried to sit up, looking around, confused. He lifted his arm to look at the attached drip, before sinking back against the pillow in exhaustion. His eyes looked tired – they had lost their sparkle – and his skin looked slightly grey. He looked weak.

His ankles were swollen — a sign of fluid accumulating as kidney failed to remove it. John wondered how long ago that symptom had developed. Sherlock's ECG had shown sinus arrhythmia — an irregular beat typical of kidney failure, and his electrolyte levels were off. The hyperkalaemia in particular required correcting; thankfully the diuretics being administered to get rid of excess fluid should correct that as well.

“It's not just the acute kidney failure; you have an infection which reached your lungs. There’s some fluid, which is why you were having trouble breathing, the coughing. As Molly established, your kidneys are not working like they should. Your body gave out on you… finally. But you lasted surprisingly well, considering.” Describing it was hard for John, his voice sounded cold and hard. He didn’t mean it to, but it came out that way anyway. This happened on his watch, to his friend, to the most important person in his life. 

“You’re angry,” Sherlock announced.

“Yes.”

“Why are you angry with me?” he asked, puzzled.

“Because… Sherlock, you must _know_ why.” John stood up from the chair in frustration, the anger and worry making him incapable of staying still. He knew it sounded childish.

“Why?” Sherlock asked again, sitting up straighter. John always fascinated him when he was being unpredictable.

“Because I care about you. Because I… need you…” he swallowed hard, not really wanting to admit that. “You don’t look after yourself… and I’m scared… that one day you’re going to just… disappear again and I… _I can’t_ …I don’t think… I can survive a second run of that.”

“Oh John, you _know_ the first time wasn’t real,” Sherlock scoffed.

John knew he shouldn’t bring it up again, but he couldn’t help it. And Sherlock never wanted to talk about it. Not in the way John needed him to. The fact that he was being so flippant about it, just made his irritation grow.

“It was real enough… for me. Jesus, Sherlock, don’t you understand? It was real. _To me_ ,” John grunted out quietly, through gritted teeth, fists clenching by his sides.

Sherlock couldn’t say anything in response to that. He just lay there, looking at John, and John couldn’t bear it. He turned and moved to the window, taking in the scenery outside. Where people lived ordinary lives. Where the people below didn’t have to deal with flatmates that had no concept of the chaos they caused in the lives of those who loved them. The thought made John flinch at himself.

“John… I’m sorry.”

“Yeah well, just be mindful of the fact that… not everything is a game, Sherlock,” John said, glancing back his way before hugging his arms around himself and looking back out the window. “Not everything is good fun to the rest of us. Sometimes… _sometimes_ feelings get hurt. I know you don’t feel things that way. But for me, that hurt.”

“John you know I didn’t… you know why I—”

“It doesn’t matter Sherlock, don’t you understand?” John replied, without even looking over to him. “Feelings aren’t always rational. They’re not something you can scientifically study. Not really. They don’t follow a predictable path. You can’t experiment and research. Sometimes they’re unpredictable. You can’t _science_ it.”

“Of course you can, John,” he scoffed. He always found John’s moral dilemmas ridiculous. “I do it all the time. Like with your last girlfriend, what was her name again?”

John fired him an angry look in response.

“I calculated the exact moment that she would—”

“Yeah well, don’t do it with _me_ okay?” John said heatedly, turning back to look out the window and end that train of conversation.

Sherlock had the decency to stay quiet for a moment, allowing John a moment of peace before finally answering. “Noted. I guess that means I can’t drug your tea anymore either?”

“Sherlock!”

“John, I’m joking! Obviously,” Sherlock said, trying desperately to lighten the mood.

“I know you’re not, you know,” John said, unable to give in. He stood for a moment in silence before changing the subject. “They’re transferring you to the ward soon. Most likely they'll play time, wait for twenty-four hours to see if your kidneys start recovering on their own with some long overdue medical help. And if they don't show signs of improving tomorrow, it's going to be dialysis, at least for a while.”

“I thought they'd wait… I don't know, a week to see if things improve?” Sherlock sat up a bit straighter, suddenly nervous.

“Sherlock, there’s no time to muck around with this stuff. You’re in bad shape. Is none of this sinking in? You could have died.”

“You’re always so dramatic. I was perfectly fine John.”

“Sherlock,” he turned quickly, the frustration boiling over, ready to lose his temper again, before looking at his friend properly.

John knew Sherlock was never one to show weakness or admit defeat and he wondered if maybe Sherlock was just deflecting his fear and trying to rile John up for sport. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it. John was always an easy mark. He let out a long steadying breath.

“I need to… I just need a minute to—” John began.

This was not the time or place to be taking his own emotions out on Sherlock. The man clearly didn’t understand the depths of what was going on in John’s own head right now. Instead of finishing his sentence, he stormed out of the room before he said anything he regretted, bumping into Mycroft in the doorway, before continuing on down the corridor.

**********

“This won’t do at all! Brother, why didn’t you tell me sooner? I will make arrangements to get you into a more… private facility. London Bridge at the very least,” Mycroft scoffed. "You'll be more comfortable there," he promised, his glance sweeping around the other beds in the four-person room.

“I’m not planning on staying long enough to get comfortable, anyway,” Sherlock sighed in frustration. "John says St Mary's has the specialist kidney unit. It's where they've got the best experts."

“That’s beside the point, brother. We can’t have you staying amongst the common people,” he sneered, satisfied that he had annoyed Sherlock enough, when he saw his brother shut his eyes to end the argument. Mycroft knew that meant he had really won but as usual, he couldn’t stop there. “Looks like you successfully managed to upset John… again.” He moved to the chair and crossed his legs triumphantly.

“Shut up.” Sherlock didn’t even bother opening his eyes for the jibe.

“You really should tell him,” Mycroft added, as he fussed with a piece of imaginary lint on his trouser leg.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Sherlock replied, with clear avoidance.

“Sherlock. You know I always said it was a bad idea — the fall. All of it.”

“And I noted it.”

“You _disregarded_ it,” Mycroft argued.

“Well, you’re hardly an expert in things to do with the heart,” Sherlock tried to stab.

“I can extrapolate,” Mycroft said proudly, nose slightly elevated to denote his superiority. “Predicting human behaviour is a simple formula.”

“John is _not_ simple,” Sherlock argued, opening his eyes to make sure Mycroft heard him properly.

“No. You’re right about that,” Mycroft said, sadly. It was his biggest failure as a brother that he couldn’t get them to talk things through properly. They wouldn’t stay away from each other, but they wouldn’t resolve their differences either, or talk things out. It was beyond frustrating. For a man that could solve disputes between volatile governments, he was yet to manage this one seemingly simple goal. John had returned to Baker Street upon Sherlock’s return, and they had gone back to their lives of crime-solving together, but things had been strained. John had struggled to fit back into Sherlock’s life comfortably. Mycroft could see from the outside what was happening, but Sherlock refused to acknowledge it, no matter how often he subtly tried to bring it up with his little brother.

“John is a complex web of emotions that I’m still learning to decipher,” Sherlock admitted, staring towards the window, deep in thought. “There’s no way you could have predicted his behaviour, his reaction to that.”

“And yet—” Mycroft began.

“Shut up,” was all Sherlock could manage in rebuttal.

But Mycroft wasn’t easily put off. “So, why’s he upset this time then?”

“Not sure.”

“You made him believe you were dead, Sherlock. Don’t forget that. He had to face his mortality and the loss of you – and his life without you in it. Any friend would suffer with that, with the way it… unfolded,” Mycroft said carefully. “And then, you came back. Things were never going to just go back to the way they were.”

“But why can’t they? I’m back now,” Sherlock scoffed. “I thought it had been going fine.”

“It’s like the scars on your back,” Mycroft tried.

“You said we wouldn’t talk about them,” Sherlock reminded him stubbornly. The topic was off limits.

“Ah yes, but they’re still there, even so, aren’t they? The remnants of them are still there – the reminder, still there. Just as the emotional torture will remain, no matter how much you want it to go.”

“Yes. So? You think John will always hate me for doing that? Is that what you’re implying?”

“Oh, I don’t think he _hates_ you Sherlock,” Mycroft said, realising just how slow his brother was sometimes. His heart lurched a little at the realisation. His training of his brother’s lack of caring had been perhaps a little too successful. 

Sherlock looked at him, interested suddenly.

“I think he loves you — incredibly deeply. I don’t know how you can’t see it. He will always forgive you, too, but he will never forget. And he will always fear that the next case will be the one that takes you from him again. Because once was enough for him and that nearly broke him. Now he’s facing it again. Here you are in kidney failure. He must be terrified. He doesn’t want you to leave him.”

“Well I can’t promise that,” Sherlock said, the colour running out of his face even further at his brother’s words.

“Of course, you can’t. No one can. But now you’re the boy who cried wolf. You kept him in the dark and he lost you, and it broke him. And now you’ve hidden how unwell you were feeling, and here we are.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, processing the information, deep in thought.

**********

“Am I interrupting?” John said from the doorway, coffee cup in hand, taking in the scene before him. He rarely saw the brothers talking without fighting. Something about the mood between them was unsettling. Sherlock looked over at him in the doorway, and John couldn’t decipher what the look on his face meant.

“No, John, I was just leaving. Please come in,” Mycroft said, far too politely, giving his brother a nod, which was far too encoded with meaning between them for John’s liking. Once again, he was out of the loop. “I’ll go and make the arrangements,” he said to Sherlock as he left the room.

Sherlock and John were left together in silence. Neither of them able to speak first for a moment.

“Hi,” John said awkwardly, finally, rocking on his feet slightly.

“Hi.” Sherlock replied, simply.

“What was all that about?” John asked, signalling towards the empty doorway that Mycroft had left through.

“Apparently my brother isn’t happy with the transfer arrangements.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. John always sympathised with him about Mycroft and his annoying ways. The other three beds in the room were empty, but that probably wouldn't last long.

He nodded in understanding and then didn’t know what to say. The room filled with a silence that neither of them knew how to break. Sherlock seemed nervous all of a sudden.

John rarely saw weakness in Sherlock and he wanted to rush to reassure him. The argument earlier had been entirely his fault, his own stupid bad mood. His anger always got the better of him, usually when he was actually just worried, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t realise that. He needed to be the one to apologise and explain.

“Sorry, you go,” John said quietly, hands joined behind his back in military stance.

“John, I just wanted to start by—”

“Sorry, I thought I could wait, but I can’t,” John interrupted suddenly, stepping forward, the nervous energy too much for him.

“Okay,” Sherlock snapped his mouth shut.

“Okay,” John echoed and they both stopped still for a moment, the tension back in the air. It wasn’t like them to be uncomfortable with each other. “It’s just that, I feel so helpless. You know, being a doctor and not being able to help you. Not even bloody _noticing_. I’m angry. It’s not your fault,” he added.

“I think we both know _that’s_ not true, John.”

“Okay, well you have some part to play in that, obviously. But I already knew that about you. It’s not news to me that you don’t eat or sleep or speak for days on end, Sherlock. That you’re a stubborn mule and—”

“John—”

“No, it’s okay. I can handle that, Sherlock. I can. You’re _here_. And I never thought—” he swallowed hard, closing his eyes. When John looked at him again, Sherlock’s face had changed in a way John had never seen before.

“John—”

He held up his hand to silence Sherlock. “No, listen, I never thought I would even get to _see_ you again. After… all that. And then you came back. So, I am completely fine with it. With _all_ of it. I can live with the messy experiments in the kitchen, the ridiculous late hours for cases, the violin playing, the fact that you won’t just… _eat some bloody food_ …” he said between clenched teeth, squeezing both hands into fists of complete frustration. God, just running through the list made his blood pressure rise in annoyance… as well as complete and utter adoration. The thought punched him in the gut for a moment, making it impossible for him to speak. He loved this man, and had known it for a while now. Telling him was turning out to be a lot harder than he had anticipated, though.

“I know,” Sherlock conceded.

“It’s okay. It _is_. But Sherlock, I can’t—”

“John, you don’t have to. Let me say—”

“No, I’m not done.” John straightened up, his voice firmer and more confident all of a sudden.

“Oh. Okay.” Sherlock relaxed again.

“I don’t think I can handle living in that flat with you, following you around the city, chasing you from case to case and not knowing if you’re hiding things – like apparently slowly dying on the inside. I mean, I’m a bloody doctor and I didn’t —”

“John, sit down.” This time it was Sherlock’s turn to be firm.

“But—” John had prepared what he wanted to say. While he was out of the room he had prepared it all and talked himself into it. And now, when he was facing Sherlock, words were evading him. He couldn’t leave here again without saying what he needed to say. Not while Sherlock was so unwell. Just in case…

“Sit,” Sherlock demanded again.

John was surprised by how resolute he was. He rarely spoke like that. Not to John.

“For so many years I was alone, John. I know I had Mrs Hudson, and Greg, Molly, my brother. But I was still alone. _Really_ alone. And I liked it that way.”

“I know,” John responded. They never talked about it, but he knew. Mycroft had also tried to explain it to him before as well.

“You weren’t part of the plan, John. You weren’t… what I expected,” he went on.

“Sorry,” John said with a forced smile.  
  
“No, it’s… it’s good,” Sherlock looked down at his hands, not able to make eye contact all of a sudden.

“Okay—” John inserted, slightly uncertain about where Sherlock was going with his thoughts, but willing to hold off on his own need to talk, to let Sherlock speak for the time being.

“But sometimes I forget,” Sherlock added.

“Forget?” John had definitely lost the train of thought now.

“That I’m _not_ alone anymore. I forget,” Sherlock looked up, apologetically.

“Right,” John said, nodding, finally understanding.

“And I forget that you can’t read my mind, or deduce what’s going on with me, the way I can deduce you.”

John blushed unexpectedly at that, and it caught Sherlock off guard.

“I—” Sherlock began, then shook his head, as if to clear it of something. “Point is, John, you’re right.”

“Yes?” John prompted.

“I should have told you there was something not right. With me.”

“Sherlock—”

“It’s just that… that—”

“Sherlock—” John tried again.

“No. John, if I can’t…” he shuffled nervously on the bed. “I worry if I start _telling_ you everything that’s in my head… there are things that I don’t… that I _can’t_ —”

“Sherlock, honestly, it’s fine. I didn’t mean to—”

“But I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s voice was stronger, more determined.

“What?” John wasn’t sure he’d heard Sherlock apologise like that before to him, ever. Not earnestly.

“I’m _sorry_. That’s what I needed to say,” Sherlock said with a firm nod of satisfaction.

“You _really_ must be sick,” John joked, allowing himself a laugh, relaxing his shoulders slightly.

Sherlock smiled gently at the sight. “I know I cause you endless amounts of grief and I—”

“No, Sherlock, no.” John needed to stop him right there, his head shaking frantically, his face becoming more serious. “Just stop,” he added with authority.

He knew Sherlock liked it when he did that. Sherlock was always so confident, but when John pulled rank, he got the most adorable blush on his cheeks and tended to stammer for a moment afterwards, like his brain had gone momentarily offline and John couldn’t help testing it out every so often. He was pretty sure there was very little he did that surprised or impressed Sherlock, but occasionally making him flustered was something John enjoyed doing. He doubted Sherlock was even aware of it himself.

“B-but I—” Sherlock tried to keep going, the slight stutter making John smile to himself in victory.

“Can I tell you what _I_ think?” John asked gently, putting a hand on Sherlock’s arm, the two of them stopping to look at the point of contact, both of them momentarily confused by it.

“Please,” Sherlock agreed.

“You’re not as good at reading my thoughts as you think you are,” John said suddenly, boldly.

“I doubt that,” Sherlock said, with his usual confidence.

John looked at him for a moment, his head tilted, trying to decide if Sherlock really _did_ know what was going through his mind right now. He sincerely hoped not, at least. Before he could regret it, or before Sherlock could deduce anything, he leaned forward and grabbed Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him. Sherlock didn’t have time to react, to pull back, to second guess it. John expected him to stiffen, to panic, to push him away in surprise. But he didn’t even hesitate. His lips were pliable and ready, and he sighed from deep in his chest in satisfaction. As if he’d been waiting for it to happen, wanting it to happen just as much. John had not expected that. He finally pulled back just enough to see Sherlock’s face, still holding it gently in his hands.

Sherlock smiled slightly before leaning his head forward to rest on John’s, the relief clear.

“You can’t tell me you knew about _that_ ,” John said with a grin. “I didn’t even know I was going to do _that_.”

“No, you’re right. I didn’t know. But I suspect you didn’t know about me either,” he replied.

“Hmmm no. No, I didn’t,” John agreed, nodding and smiling. “That was a nice surprise.”

“Well then. I guess we still have some surprises for each other,” Sherlock said with a light snigger.

“Wait,” John said, letting go of Sherlock, his brain finally catching up. “You didn’t want to tell me you were possibly dying… because you thought you’d accidentally tell me… about _this_? You let your kidney disintegrate until it hit a full seven hundred, to avoid having to tell me you had feelings?!”

“Something like that.” Sherlock was back to being coy.

“You bloody idiot!” John shouted.

But Sherlock pulled him forward quickly, before he could start an argument properly, and kissed him again. This time, more forcefully, wrapping his arms around John’s neck to pull him close.

“Steady on, brother,” Mycroft chimed from the doorway, seemingly unphased by the new development. “Glad to see you two finally working out your differences,” he simpered.

John tried to pull away, but Sherlock grabbed him by the front of his jumper as he sat back, firmly keeping him close, throwing a side-eyed glance at John to let him know he was not, in fact, excused yet, before looking over to his brother.

“Weren’t you busy, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked with annoyance at the interruption.

“It’s all sorted. They’re on their way up now to take you to the ambulance.”

Sherlock’s face dropped – changing from the earlier confidence, the stony battle face he used to fake some bravado with his brother – just enough that John noticed from up close. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm.

“It’s okay. I’ll be there.”

Sherlock didn’t speak, he just looked at John and, in that moment, he looked genuinely scared.

“Sherlock, it will be fine,” he reassured him.

“John, I’m sorry.” Sherlock was suddenly a bit frantic.

“I know, you said.”

“No, but I mean _genuinely_ ,” he pushed.

John could see his eyes were widening and he was clearly starting to panic a little bit. “Oh, so it wasn’t genuine before?” he teased.

“No. I mean, of course I meant it, but now I _really_ mean it. I’m sorry for putting you through all of that before... and now this.”

“Sherlock, I’ll survive. Maybe let’s try some better communication in future. But right now, you just need to breathe, and let the medical professionals do their job. Stop fighting everyone, okay?”

“I’m not sure I know how,” Sherlock moaned.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, brother mine,” Mycroft interrupted.

“Shut up Mycroft!” they both said in tandem to him, before looking at each other and smiling.

Mycroft stood, silenced, a sour look on his face. They never did include him in their games. And he was displeased once again.

John grabbed Sherlock’s face again. “I’ll be there the whole time, I promise. I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not ever again,” he said, as he pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s. They both smiled, enjoying the new closeness they were allowed.

“Together?” Sherlock asked him.

“Absolutely,” John replied.


End file.
